Decembers of Love
by Ellie12
Summary: Understanding had been their one constant. HouseCuddy


Title: Decembers of Love  
Author: Ellie  
Rating: PG13  
Summary: With his hand on her arm, his breath warm as it brushed loose curls across her neck, it was impossible to refuse him. "Tea would be really nice."

---

She placed the last, cleaned slide back in its place, then turned to the hastily scribbled page of data. With a sigh, she settled onto one of the lab stools and began to meticulously copy the information into her notebook, her handwriting overwhelming the pale blue grids on the page.

"What are you still doing here?" The voice broke into her focus, loud and intrusive. "Shouldn't you be home for the holidays, decking the halls and decorating sugar cookies?"

Frowning, she looked up from her lab work to see Greg House, the department's TA, slouching in the doorway, a sheaf of paperwork hastily crammed into a satchel that was barely hanging off his shoulder. Unlike the rest of the student body, who'd braced for the winter weather with layers, wool, and down, he was still strolling around in jeans and a t-shirt unless outside. Earlier in the week she'd seen him running, in the snow, wearing shorts.

"This lab final isn't due until noon tomorrow. I wanted to double-check my results before handing it in, since as an RA, I have to be here through Friday. Besides, Chanukah was this week anyway," she added, a mumbled afterthought she half-hoped he wouldn't hear.

"Here I'd have sworn you were Irish Catholic, Lisa _Cuddy_!"

"Dad is, lapsed. Mom's Jewish, so we celebrate. Don't you have something to celebrate? You don't seem like the type to spend break working." In fact, aside from his set office hours and his own lab work, she rarely saw him at all. The three times she'd stopped by to ask him questions during hours, he'd either been reading something in Spanish that looked closer to Neruda than nephrology, or watching _The Price is Right_ using makeshift, coat hanger rabbit ears.

"I have an apartment here, where, rest assured, very little working will be done over the holiday break. Let me see that." He crossed the lab in half a dozen steps, swiping her notebook off the table before she could stop him.

"Give that back! I have to finish—"

"Jensen uses the same labs every year," he said, scanning over her results. "These are all right. Come have some coffee, warm up and relax a little."

She took the notebook back from him, neatly placing it in her bag to stall for time. Drunken frat boys and over-eager chemistry nerds she knew how to ward off. Greg House was an altogether different animal. "I have to help start doing room checks tonight. And I don't really drink coffee."

He caught her as she tried to brush past him, hand warm through the fuzzy pink wool of her sweater. "Tea, or hot chocolate then. You don't really want to see what shape those freshmen leave their dorm rooms in, do you?"

"I know what shape they're in." With his hand on her arm, his breath warm as it brushed loose curls across her neck, it was impossible to refuse him. "Tea would be really nice."

"Don't ever let me hear you utter the word 'nice' in connection with me ever again." He stepped away, pulling a leather jacket off the coat rack by the door. "It would completely ruin my reputation as an asshole."

They were both grinning as they walked out of the science building and into the light flurries tumbling through the crepuscular sky.

---

She'd always volunteered to cover shifts on Christmas, and on the eve of her first holiday as administrator, she opted to work as well. Gouged hands from turkey slicing accidents were easily stitched, and the light trickle of patients gave her time to catch up on a backlog of paperwork.

Delivering a reviewed file to Oncology, she noticed a light in the dimmed Diagnostics area. House had no patients over the holidays, had only consulted on two cases since taking the position last month. He'd avoided work at all costs, so surely he wouldn't be in late tonight.

Leery of a prank, she made he way down to his office, where light radiated from nearly closed blinds. Peering inside, she was shocked to find House in his chair, back to the door. Quietly, she tried to slip inside, but he didn't turn at the clatter of the blinds.

"House?"

When he turned, she almost wished she hadn't disturbed him. His eyes were bloodshot, his face haggard and unshaven, looking worse than he had when she'd discharged him four months ago. She didn't know what to say to him, so she merely picked up his cane from the floor by the door and carried it over to rest against the arm of the chair before seating herself on the footstool.

He offered her a bottle of something, twisted inside plain brown paper. Glancing at her watch, she shrugged. "What the hell, I was off ten minutes ago." After a swig of the whiskey burned down her throat, she gasped and wished she'd refused.

He chuffed at her discomfiture then took a long gulp himself. "She sent me a Christmas present."

She must have looked as confused as she felt, because he gestured with the bottle towards a FedEx box open beside his desk. A scattering of Styrofoam peanuts trailed across the floor to where a pile of records sat, quite obviously older, with yellowing paper liners sneaking out the edges of some, the sides of others worn away to white with repeated handling. "She sent you records for Christmas?"

Shaking his head, he picked up the top album, which she recognized as Dylan's "Blonde on Blonde," leaving the Stones' "Exile on Main Street" to slide off the edge of something she didn't recognize with an old black and white image of a bluesman and his guitar. "She returned what she 'accidentally' took when she left."

The ever-lightening bottle hit the floor with a glassy thunk, and he spun the album between his palms, the colors swirling as Cuddy stared at it. She wasn't sure how to proceed, so she picked up the Stones album and skimmed the titles, wondering what Jagger would do.

"There was a note, that she wasn't sure where I was now, so she sent them all here. I never understood why she even took them. It's not like she had anything they'd have gotten mixed up with."

He stared down at the album in his hands a long minute, then at the pile on the floor. Gesturing with the corner of the album, he said, "Put that one on." Then he retrieved the bottle and took another long drink.

She picked up the bluesy looking album and stared around the barren office. Beside his overflowing inbox sat a turntable. It had been years since she'd played a record, so she fumbled for a minute, watching him out of the corner of her eye. Just as she was about to drop the needle, he flung the album in his hands across the room, record flying out of the case to crack against the blinds and glass. She dropped the needle awkwardly, a scratchy hiss echoing from the speakers before a solitary guitar broke through the tension.

Something in the music touched him almost instantly; she watched his eyes close and his head drop back against the chair as the twangy, tinny guitar and plaintive, life-worn voice echoed across the office. She wondered if this was his crossroads, if he was on his knees trying to choose a way, find salvation.

Crossing back to the footstool, she placed one hand on his knee. It was almost immediately covered with his own, pulling it away and tugging her up towards him. Reluctant, she held back for a moment, until his eyes opened and he stared at her, so raw.

That she could not refuse, so she carefully settled across his lap, the chair creaking under their weight. He buried his head in the crook of her neck as her arms encircled him, but there were no tears. Eventually, though, there were lips, warm against her carotid, tracing the tendons.

"House," she said, pulling away and drawing a deep breath.

His forehead dropped to rest against her clavicle, breath coming in slow, deep gasps.

Her arms drew him tight again, one hand going up to tangle in his already disheveled hair. "House."

---

Six months ago, she thought she had all the miracles she could wish for. Yet now she was left with nothing but wishes that no one had the power to grant. It was supposed to be the season of miracles, but she'd seen little in all her years, and certainly nothing this year, that leant any faith to that idea.

This year, she would sacrifice her own failed prayer for a child to a less selfish desire, to see him without this Gordian knot of legal troubles and pain and addiction. Whatever lawyers she might set on the matter, however she might try to shelter the staff, she couldn't protect them all from the world. It had become clear to her over the last few months how little influence her desires had on the will of the world. Drops of blood and deep pain spoke of the futility of her influence.

Driving past his apartment, she saw the lights on and a nearby parking spot free, so she stopped.

"You've got to stop this madness," she said by way of greeting when he swung the door open.

He watched her as she dropped down onto the couch, pulling off her gloves and tucking them in her jacket pockets. She could feel him tracking her movements, and wasn't surprised when he settled beside her, too close, before replying.

"I am but mad north-northwest."

She resisted the urge to pummel him, or drop her head onto his shoulder and weep. "So find a nice southerly wind and clear up this whole thing."

"Are you suggesting I take a vacation? Or that we run away together? The Argentines would love to have us, I'm sure. Or maybe the Brazilians. I'm sure you're familiar with that."

With a shake of her head, she tried to ignore the remark. "None of us can go on like this, House. Your leg's getting worse, Wilson can't practice, and I can't send a bunch of flying monkeys to make this all disappear, whatever you may think about me."

"But how cool would that be?" He grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. There were more wrinkles there than she remembered, making them look even deeper. "Were you worried they'd scare a kid?"

That was more than she could handle serenely. Lashing out, her fist connected firmly with his shoulder. "You don't get to joke about that! Not when you know…." She tried to rein in her emotions, knowing that to loose it in front of him now would be the end of all of them.

"Cuddy. What I said was…out of line. Even for me."

She wasn't sure how it happened, but suddenly she was in his arms, and both of them were fighting for composure against a heady maelstrom of grief, pain, rage, and regret. There was no hesitation as she returned the embrace, or as their lips met. Only when his hand slipped under the waistband of her skirt did her spine straighten and body move away from his.

"We shouldn't do this. Especially now."

"When have we ever had a good time to do this?"

Her exhalation might have been the beginning of a laugh, if she could remember how. "Never." She kissed him again, appreciating the warmth of his lips, the rasp of his stubble against her skin. Her hands found their way through his rumpled shirt to the soft skin underneath, until he moved off the couch.

"C'mon," he said, tugging her up off the couch, then leaning against her, leading her back the hallway to his room. She hesitated only for a moment when they reached the doorway. He didn't give her the time to overthink, unbuttoning her shirt as she stood pondering.

As she fell into the bed, she more surprised she hadn't found herself here before, his fine sheets under her and his strong arms around her, tugging away silk and wool.

His hesitation was greater as he hovered over her in the dimness, one hand playing her ribs like a xylophone. "Still trying to have that kid?" The hand trailed further down over her bare skin.

If she answered, she knew tears would follow, so she just pulled him down to her and trusted him to understand. Understanding had been their one constant.

---

End


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